


Under Streetlights in the City of Palms

by theadamantdaughter



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Loosely a Flower Shop AU, M/M, Modern AU, Shance Secret Santa 2018, Tooth-Rotting Fluff w/ a dashing of angst, but really... idk just a two dorks in love AU, shance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 09:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17139560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadamantdaughter/pseuds/theadamantdaughter
Summary: Mentally checked out, Shiro ventures South at the invitation of Allura, joining her, Lotor, and Coran in sunny Fort Myers, FL. His wish is plenty of relaxation, a distraction or two, and a break from the stresses that plague him. What he finds? A Cuban college senior named Lance, home on Christmas break. And damn… does Shiro have it bad.





	Under Streetlights in the City of Palms

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second time writing Shance, and my first doing so in any type of capacity outside of a drabble. While I’m nervous to share this, I’m also so, so proud of how this fic turned out. DRAGON-IN-A-TOWER, it was a pleasure writing for you. I hope you enjoy 17K+ of domestic fluff, flower shop shenanigans, and some general bi boys falling in love. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
> 
> Rated T: Mild language, elements of PTSD and war flashbacks, and suggestive comments occasionally coupled with some heated kisses.

The ringing doesn’t stop.

Fingers knotting his hair. Hands forming fists. He pulls. He pulls and pulls and the pain and—

“Shiro.”

Somewhere, faded, a voice like trickling rain falls on him. He’s vaguely aware of it, of the kindness in it and the genuine goodness that voice intends, but his mind won’t let him believe it. His mind is- is—

The pain and the screaming and the crash, boom, silence.

Nothing but silence and that god-awful ringing.

Sweat trickles down his back, gathers on the tip of his nose. He’s so acutely focused on its path that it burns. It burns and he squeezes his eyes shut, like shutting out the blur of industrial-grade carpet will douse the fires surrounding him.

And he pulls his hair. He tries to pull it right out of his head. He should be dead, he should—

“Takashi.”

There’s that voice, again. Soft, gentle. The voice’s fingers are cool as water, wrapping around his left wrist, touching his knuckles until his grip lessens. The voice draws his flesh-and-blood hand down, cups his hand between its own. A rhythmic pattern taps on his skin; soothing.

_One. Two._

“Shiro, angel.”

More tapping. The same, drumming pace.

_Three. Four._

When he reaches five, Shiro manages to open his eyes. The prosthetic hand, courtesy of his very own robotics conglomerate, snarls in his bangs, making him hiss as white hair snags and pulls loose. He stares at the few strands, finally dropping that hand to his thigh.

It’s nothing, he reminds himself. The slight pain is centering. It’s what he’s craving.

“Are you alright?” The voice that brought him out of the night returns, clearer now.

Following the sound, Shiro focuses, focuses on a cascade of white hair, on crystal blue eyes and pink, pillowed lips.

“Yeah.”

His best friend. Twin flame. Platonic soulmate. Whatever term the kids use now. She’s seen him through a hundred episodes, always knows exactly what to do to bring him out of one; she hasn’t dropped his hand. Her demeanor remains patient.

And, yet, he’s swamped by guilt, nearly overcome with it.

“I’m fine,” he grits. “I- I’m going to get some air.”

Shiro pulls his hand from hers. He doesn’t need help. He certainly didn’t ask for it. And he’s not willing to stand there like a zoo exhibit in the middle of the desk pods, the interns gawking at him with remnants of balloons in their hands. He catches an intern forming the words _‘I’m sorry’_ and that’s it. He’s out.

Out of the huddle, into the hall.

He ignores Allura’s protest, sweeping by the coat rack, past the elevator, towards the stairs. Thirty stories down, but he wants to move, wants to run. The brushed grey-and-black carbon fiber of his right hand streaks through his hair again, flicks pricks of sweat from it as he makes the long descent and finally flies into the street.

Cold air. A litany of sound. The ringing is nearly snuffed out.

Downtown Manhattan greets him as it always does: busy, vivid, fully alive and distracting and so opposite of himself.

When he moved here four years ago, medically discharged from the military and reeling from the loss of his right arm, he thought the controlled chaos of New York City would end up killing him. But, Allura and Coran had made a home here, Keith was mastering social work at Columbia, and, as it turned out, that controlled chaos is always enough to keep him on the ground, to prevent him from hurting himself worse than life already has.

Shiro slips into the foot traffic and into the lives of passersby.

For the young, bickering couple, he imagines flared tempers over rotten milk. Maybe one left the fridge open; maybe the other forgot a new carton at the grocery. A nuisance, yes, but not irreconcilable. A sour looking man brushes by him, however, and whatever has his face contorted isn’t something Shiro wants to explore. His gaze flicks to others, to rushing couriers narrowly avoiding opening car doors, to businessmen whistling for taxis, to women dodging construction workers with hissed retorts.

He glares at one yellow hard-hat as he passes, not entirely aimless in his path, but more or less unenthused by his surroundings from that point on. He isn’t needed in others’ problems; he isn’t wanted. He should be concentrating on his own, on the quick beat behind his ribs and the tension that lingers between his shoulder blades.

Rolling his shoulders back in a bid to relax, Shiro takes a left at the next intersection and flags down a cab.

“Where to?” the man asks as Shiro slides into the backseat.

“72nd and Columbus.”

A horn blares and the cabbie pulls into traffic. Shiro tucks his chin to his chest, letting the collar of his coat block out whatever it can.

* * *

 

A subtle dip in the mattress nudges him from listless dreams.

Blinking awake, Shiro orients himself in the cool dark of his bedroom. His grey curtains are no longer lined by a thread of sunlight, and the shapes nearby - a dresser and chest of drawers, an armchair and lamp near the windows, a basket of laundry in the way - are little more than shadowy forms he’d otherwise be startled by.

He cools his reaction by wiggling his toes.

He knows who’s there, but he remains unmoving. She’ll wait until he shows he’s ready; it’s their routine following an episode.

Black protests, a rumbly meow resonating through her and into the mattress. Shiro laughs when she nips at him, those bright yellow eyes flicking up and pinning him like moonbeams, white fangs snagging his bedspread.

“So feisty.”

Behind him, Allura chuckles softly. “You’re annoying her.”

“Me? Never.”

Rolling onto his back and into the center of the bed, Shiro catches Allura’s smile. It disappears behind her curtain of hair, then she’s pushing it from her face, propping herself on her side to study him.

“You’re having trouble again.”

“I’m alright, Allura.”

“You’re not,” she says more firmly, then lays her hand on his bicep when he tries to protest. “It’s not any fault of your own, Shiro. It’s not anything you’re doing wrong… but you may benefit from visiting Zethrid, again.”

He turns his gaze to the ceiling, brows furrowed. “I don’t need therapy, Allura. I got startled. That’s all.”

“Twice in one week? And then two weeks prior, you disappeared.”

“I didn’t ask you to babysit me.”

“No one knew where you’d gone.”

Shiro grits his teeth. “Central Park.”

“Where you hid for an entire day.” Her tone carries an edge, one that’s concerned, yet firm with him. “If you’re falling off again— I can phone Zethrid, Shiro. It’s not a weakness to seek help.”

“I know!” Grey eyes snap to her, harsh in the moment, but quickly softening with regret. Shiro swallows, gathering himself. “I just- I don’t know why.”

“Why…”

“Why I need it. I don’t know what’s triggering this and I feel stupid because I don’t have a real reason.”

“Did someone say you needed one?”

Shiro shakes his head, the pillow rustling. He feels small in the center of his queen-size bed, on the verge of tears. Having Allura speak sense into him is both comforting and jarring, and he palms the mattress nervously before folding them over his chest.

“I think it’s the holidays,” he murmurs, stealing a sidelong glance. Allura wears an open expression, one that encourages him to continue. “Adam… five years without him, that feels big, you know? Monumental, almost.” He chews his lip threw a slow breath, then, “I keep dreaming about him, about the fights we had.”

“What happened to him wasn’t your fault.”

“He wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for me.”

“That’s not true. You have no way to know that.”

Allura’s fingers tighten briefly on his arm, a gesture of support before she settles on his pillow and snuggles up beside him. Normally comforted by her weight, Shiro struggles to calm. His breathing is compressed; his chest, tight.

The ringing creeps in again.

That flare of light blinding him through his eyelids; the scent of explosives, blood, and… death.

Adam. Adam.

Balling his hands into fists, Shiro concentrates on a solitary breath. One, two, three, four. He lets it go over the same count, as Zethrid taught him a year ago. Maybe Allura is right. He should go back. It was foolish of him to stop in the first place.

But, it’s been a year without any reminders, a year without any noticeable triggers.

Until now.

For whatever reason, he’s latched onto this Christmas as one at which Adam should be present, and the brutal truth that he’s not, that Allura is leaving for Florida with Lotor and Coran, and Keith will be gone for a mission trip, that he’ll be completely alone for the first time in ages, weighs him down like a ton of bricks.

That’s it. That explains why the steady approach of Christmas sets him on edge, why the music makes him want to paw at his ears and why he’d rather be blind than see any more twinkling lights.

Shiro sighs heavily, resigned to hide in his apartment ‘til January 1st. He’ll be fine. He’ll have groceries brought up by the doorman and Black makes for a decent conversationalist when she’s not chasing his toes around his apartment. That’s better than voicing any of this.

“What if you come with us?”

He peers at her oddly. “What if I third wheel a trip with you and your fiancé?”

“You won’t necessarily third wheel. The house has plenty of space for you to have your own, and you won’t be by yourself for the holidays.” Allura lifts her head, peers down at him. “That’s the important thing right now.”

“What did I say about babysitting me,” Shiro poses skeptically, although he’s halfway considering it.

It’s Allura’s laugh that sells him.

“Don’t worry, angel. Coran will do all that for me.”

* * *

 

“One for the pretty lady! And, one for her handsome man.” The bartender, a robust gentleman with silver hair, crinkly green eyes, and a Hawaiian shirt stretched taut over his belly, slides two Mai Tai’s onto the bar top, winking in Shiro’s direction.

He splutters, in spite of himself, tongue-tied around one too many drinks and the realization that he may have been caught gawking at the hairy belly button peeking through the bartender’s straining buttons.

“We- I’m not— No?” Shiro’s tongue darts over his lips before Allura saves him.

“My handsome man is over there.” Her finger jabs towards a booth across the crowded bar, where Lotor’s smile flashes at something Coran has said, then she rests her hand in the middle of Shiro’s back. “The jury is still out on a handsome man for this hot mess.”

“Um, objection?”

“Too bad.”

She smirks, then pointedly, Allura nods to the far end of the bar, where a blonde man sits by himself.

Every now and then, the guy looks up, towards the door. He has eyes like honey and skin that’s perfectly tanned from the sun. His wavy hair spills around his shoulders like a sheet of gold light and his tank shows off a sculpted chest. Shiro would be lying if he said none of what he saw was appealing to him, but between the glances at the bar’s entrance and the impatience with which he fires off texts—

“I’m going to talk to him for you.”

“Allura!”

He reaches for her, but she’s quick. His fingers close around nothing but humidity, and Shiro is forced to watch as she plops herself on the stool right beside her target.

“You’re terrible,” Shiro mouths.

She winks back at him, and he slips away and through the reveling dancers, taking up his spot beside Coran before Allura embarrasses him with her matchmaking.

“Did she get lost?” Lotor asks of him.

“No, more like scared me off.” Shiro swings around, looking for that shockingly white hair all piled up on top of Allura’s head. There. Still at the bar with her drink in hand, chatting amiably as Shiro’s potential boyfriend throws his head back.

Blondey is undoubtedly waiting for someone, but if there’s one thing Shiro can credit Allura with, it’s that she rarely gives up. So, it’s fitting when she returns to the table with a look of bitter disappointment and a glare thrown in Shiro’s general direction.

“I’d have a better go at convincing him to drink with you if you’d stuck around, Takashi.”

He shrugs, tongue toying with his straw. “He’s not really my type, anyway.”

“No?” Allura squints. “What is it? Too tan? Too pretty?”

“Too straight,” Lotor interjects.

“You can’t know that!”

Coran raises a finger. “Actually, I agree on this. His eyes never left you, princess, and Shiro isn’t exactly unpleasant to look at.”

“Well, thank you.”

Allura huffs at him.

“If it’s any consolation, darling, he’s disappointed in his date.” Lotor’s grin is easy, gaze teasing as it flicks over to the bar. A brunette has joined the man, but the lip of his beer bottle has far more of his attention.

“Because his date isn’t Shiro.”

“Oh?” Lotor bumps her ribs. “Should I go tell him that?”

“As much as I appreciate that... No.”

Shiro squints across the table, leaving Allura to pout and prattle on about the best years of youth slipping right by, and what if Shiro never finds anyone again? Not if she has anything to do with it, Allura promises, glassy-eyed and determined.

Lotor’s chuckle is a soft cadence beneath the music, broken up by Allura’s huffs and Coran’s occasional input. Like the older man, Shiro is more content to watch the crowd, allowing the lovebirds their own bubble, but enjoying the company, nonetheless.

“Do you think I’m missing out, Coran?”

“In what? Love?”

Shiro shrugs, scanning the bar for the umpteenth time.

The atmosphere is casual; men and women move along to the Jimmy Buffett cover band that plays from the stage, swaying through dips and spins and lazy two-steps. The air smells like sweat and stale beer, the undercurrent of perfume keeping the stench a hair below pungent. There’s dozens of colors, countless faces beneath the dim lighting. Wedges and sundresses. Board shorts with sandals. Shiro’s never had a preference for either, felt attraction to both and explored it time and time again, but recently… his interactions with anyone outside Keith and the three surrounding him have been shallow, hollow. Cold, even.

He’s distancing himself; he recognizes it, and it’s a feat to push through it.

“Allura told you I’m having attacks again.”

“She did.” Coran’s brows furrow for a moment, relaxing when Shiro looks at him. “Not much else, however. Only that you need us. Do you want to talk about it?”

“My issues? Or that you’re on designated babysitting duty?”

“I prefer Shirogane Support Crew.”

“Support Crew. Thanks. You make me sound like I’m broken.”

“Not broken, just—”

“I feel better,” Shiro cuts in. “I… I’m not anxious, I haven’t woken up from any dreams I can remember. Being here, being with people I love, it helps.”

“That’s good. But, it’s a band-aid.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have distractions: new scenery, new activities.” Coran tilts his head thoughtfully, lips twitching like his words are heavy and carefully picked. “You carry your burdens alone, Shiro. You struggle quietly. And, despite having an outlet with each of us, you tuck away whatever’s the matter and push on.”

Shiro grimaces. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You never are, and anyone who cares about you will say the same.”

Coran meets his protest with a stern nod, silencing Shiro for the moment. He’s left to grumble over the truth in the older man’s statement, if only briefly, as another sip of his Mai Tai coats his tongue in sweet liqueur and a dancing couple pulls off a unique spin. He smiles privately, watching as they slip easily into the pattern of steps.

“I do want that again. Someday,” he says, toasting the pair with his nearly empty glass. “What I used to have. What Lotor and Allura have.”

“Happiness?”

“Trust. Intimacy. Maybe I just need some fun.”

“That does require a level of openness… talking… sharing with your partner.”

“Yeah. I know.” Shiro shakes his head, then laughs. “God, I’ve had too much to drink.”

This must be what Keith means when he says Drunk Keith is an emotional rollercoaster gone off the rails. At least he’s not crying. Hunk’s never let Keith live that down, and Shiro knows he won’t get off easily from Lotor or Coran.

“Come on.” Slurping down the last of his drink, he claps Coran on the shoulder and dismisses himself for the others’ company. “Let’s find me some water. The last thing this party needs is blubbering karaoke.”

* * *

 

The following morning, Shiro is far luckier than he deserves.

The worst of it is a headache, which he nurses away with a cup of coffee and eggs. The least is a bit of dizziness, which abates as caffeine brings life to his veins. He changes from his boxers to a pair of shorts and a tank, collecting his sandals in his hand.

“I’m going for a walk,” he calls, not sure if Lotor or Allura hear him.

Shiro follows it up with a text to them both — no sense in making Allura worry unnecessarily — and locks the back door behind him. It’s a short jaunt down the already hot boardwalk to the beach, where waves tumble onto bleached sand before slipping away into the sea. He listens to the monotonous rhythm as he walks, meandering south until he reaches the pier. There, he drops his sandals at his feet, avoiding any splinters when he steps onto the sun-stained planks.

The area has dozens of shops, kids chasing each other around in the sand below, and old men fishing. Orange, blue, and white flags flutter in the breeze, the snap of the fabric adding to the splashes and shrieks. For barely past nine, the pier is lively, bustling.

Deciding the salt-spray will do him some good, Shiro walks down to the end. Away from the shoppers and restaurants, the pier is a lot quieter. He leans over the railing, elbows on the worn wood, watching the water directly below him as it shifts somewhere between milky green and blue, sunlight flickering through forests of vibrant kelp. Seagulls squawk overhead, fighting for stale fries someone dropped the prior night.

Shiro chuckles as Finding Nemo comes to mind, mimicking them. _“Mine!”_

“You talk to ‘em and they’ll think you have the fries.”

He keels around, locating the voice and the face that comes with it.

 _Damn._ That face.

Eyes as blue as the sky shimmer back at him, bright and spirited like the morning; and, full of mischief. It takes Shiro a single second to match that characteristic to the guy’s teasing tone, and he immediately decides he likes it. Playfulness. Ease. Both emanate from him, so obvious in his lazy pace, his hands in his pockets to frame a casual stance, Shiro can’t help but feel relaxed. Instantly.

And as his new companion comes closer, takes up a spot on the railing to drum his fingertips along the wood, Shiro notices more. More he likes. Freckles kiss his cheeks and dance across the bridge of his nose. His hair is a copper color; his skin bronze and… stunning. His smile highlights straight, white teeth, prompting Shiro to smile in return, then he lets his gaze fall, just once, taking in the broad shoulders, toned triceps, and tapered waist of a swimmer.

“Yeah? What’s so wrong with that? I’d make a few friends.”

“Moochers,” the guy responds, a laugh on his lips. “Not the kinda friends you want.”

Shiro raises a brow, turning slightly so his hip rests on the railing. “You have a better offer?”

“Lance.” He sticks out his hand, which Shiro shakes firmly after a moment of surprise. “Lance Mcclain.” A flicker of curiosity lands in his expression, the uniqueness of Shiro’s prosthetic likely the source, but the question falls as smoothly as Lance’s hand to his side.

Shiro appreciates that.

No clumsy inquiry; no awkward diversion necessary.

“Shiro.”

“Shiro. I like it.”

“Thanks. I do, too.”

“It’d be unfortunate if you didn’t.”

Lance grins — and it’s so pretty, Shiro forces himself to turn away, facing the ocean again. That immediate physical attraction blooms in his chest, but he keeps his voice level.

“Where are you visiting from?”

“I live here, actually. Well, sort of.” Lance tosses a shoulder, and Shiro feels his eyes on his profile. “I’m from here. My parents own a little flower shop near the Teeki Hut and it’s my winter break, so I’m helping them out.”

Shiro makes a noise of recognition.

That makes sense. Glancing in Lance’s direction again, Shiro can make out the youth about him. The boyish smile, the lanky limbs— he’s caught between years twenty-one-and-two, which instantly has something inside Shiro’s chest shrinking inward, curling away from the tendrils of interest with last night’s echo: _like I’m broken._

An almost thirty-year-old with heaps of history and PTSD next to a hot guy with minimal baggage at the most, what intrigue could Shiro possibly hold once—

“What about you? Are you a local?”

“Me?” His brows shoot up, shock written all over his face at being snapped from his self-deprecating thoughts. Lance couldn’t have known, but Shiro’s thankful, nonetheless. “No. No, I’m from Manhattan… and Japan before that.”

Lance whistles through his teeth. “Neat. When did you move to the States?”

“Never, really. My dad was military before he died. He met my mom here, and as a result, I grew up with dual citizenship and frequent trips between the two.” A fond smile for the cherry blossoms shapes his lips and widens for the memories of sightseeing with his mother. “Believe it or not, this is my first time in Florida.”

“No way.”

“Yeah.” Shiro runs his hand through his hair, the white fringe falling back into his eyes at wild angles. He tilts his hips towards Lance again, propping one elbow on the rail. “I like it so far. What I’ve seen of it, at least.”

“And what have you seen?”

Heat flushes his cheeks, hand paused on the side of his neck before he stutters and gestures flippantly at the water.

“And, uh… Blowfish Bar? I think. Last night is in pieces.”

“That’s the crappiest bar in town. That’s the only one you’ve gone to?”

Shiro nods.

“Oh, man. How long have you been here?”

“A week. Just about.”

“Jeez, that’s sad. Blowfish Bar,” Lance clutches his chest in distress. “You haven’t even been to The Reef?”

“From the name, it doesn’t sound much better.”

“Than the _Blow_ fish Bar?”

“Hey, I didn’t pick the place. I was dragged there because someone in the party wanted that Jimmy Buffett ambience,” he spreads his hands defensively, half ready to call Coran and thank him for his poor taste. “You at least have to admit; the Mai Tai’s are pretty good.”

“If you want to wake up with a headache.”

Shiro plays innocent. Lance throws his back and laughs.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and if you could just—” Feigning a sudden, sharp pain, Shiro massages above his brows, watching as concern takes over Lance’s bemused grin.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry.” He starts apologizing, looking like he’ll dart to the nearest Walgreens any second. “Am I too loud? I—”

“I’m kidding,” Shiro snickers. “Coffee took care of most of it, and the fresh air has been h—”

**_“Lance!”_ **

Someone shouts for him from a distance down the pier, jogging towards them.

He slumps visibly, blowing wisp of copper hair away from his forehead. “Dammit. Come on.”

“Lance!”

And then he breaks eye contact completely, if not hesitantly, turning away from Shiro and the sea with an irritated look for the young woman in red glasses and jean shorts.

“What are you doing? The shipment just arrived at the shop and we need your help unloading.” She stomps right up to him, dark hair a curly mess and shoulders set with righteous determination. “You said you were going for a coffee, not—”

She finally settles on Shiro, lips pursed as her eyes follow his body up to his face, then sticks her hand out in a fashion similar to Lance.

“Veronica, and you’ll have to excuse my little brother’s chattering.”

“Not little.”

“You are to me, sweet pea.”

“I was enjoying his chattering, actually.” Shiro gives her hand a firm shake, nodding apologetically at Lance.

He gets it now, how Keith must feel every time he interrupts a moment with Hunk. Not that it’ll ever stop him from razzing Keith whenever he can, but Shiro understands the sliver of disappointment, and he swears he sees it in Lance.

“Takashi Shirogane. I go by Shiro.”

“Cool name,” she remarks. “Even cooler prosthetic!” Veronica doesn’t let his hand go, instead turning it over in her grip and studying the metal joints as Shiro flushes pink. “This is that, um… that new company. Lance—”

“Astral Robotics?” Shiro shyly supplies.

“Yes! That’s it! God, they’re stuff is so cool. How did you even—? Isn’t this new technology? How did you get a prototype? And such a functional one?”

A pocket of excitement has the questions spilling from her, and Shiro won’t lie. It’s flattering that she recognizes the handiwork, given that the company is only a few years into its projects and research. Even more flattering is the slow drain of color from Lance’s face and the hurried way he bats his sister away.

“You’re that Takashi,” he gasps.

“How many of us do you know?”

Lance claps his head. “No way! This is awesome. Veronica is obsessed with you!”

“I am not. Just the company,” she quips, quickly adding for Shiro’s benefit, “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“And I’m not the one who following you on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.” Veronica squints at her brother with glee. “How did you not even recognize your very own Internet crush?”

“I don’t- It’s not like—” He fumbles, crossing his arms with a growl. “I mean, he looked kind of familiar, but— You’re telling me you’d recognize every pretty girl you follow if they showed up right in front of you, totally unexpected?”

“If it helps, my business partner bumped into Elon Musk at a convention last month and it took her a full hour to realize who he was.”

“See,” Lance says.

“And none of my posts are very recent.”

“My point exactly.”

Shiro chuckles quietly at Lance’s victory, then it blossoms fully with amusement.

As sudden as he appeared, Lance has tugged Shiro out of his comfort zone and plopped him somewhere new. Surprisingly, he feels lighter here, and while Coran’s comment about band-aids whispers through his psyche, Shiro argues this isn’t that.

It’s… refreshing, not distracting. It’s what he wanted last night.

_Fun._

Swallowing, Shiro dares for a margin more. He may only have a couple weeks left in Florida, but what’s the harm in enjoying himself?

“You know, I’m around through Christmas if you wanna, I don’t know. Learn more about it?”

“Oo.” Veronica chimes, eyes as wide as saucers and honed on her brother. “Say yes. Say yes!”

“He’s not asking you.”

She scowls, prompting Shiro to amend himself.

“Well, technically, yes… I am butchering my attempt to ask Lance out…” His attention flicks to Veronica for a second, and when it returns to Lance, Shiro’s blushing. “If you want, we can end at the shop? Let your sister ask me whatever she wants?”

Shiro notices Veronica nodding at the edge of his vision, but he’s only looking at Lance.

who bobs his head with something of a choked laugh. “Y- yeah… yeah, that sounds great. Tomorrow?”

And it’s a good feeling, a warm feeling, that bubbles up from his stomach and spills through his veins. It’s light and airy, like the clouds puffing across the horizon. It’s lazy and inviting, like the eddies and swirls that the tide leaves behind.

Shiro lets out a happy sigh. “I’ll meet you right here at nine.”

* * *

He’s wearing a goofy smile when he slips through the back slider later that morning.

It’s unlocked, so he knows someone is awake. Listening for a second, Shiro pinpoints them in the kitchen, trying desperately to will the color from his cheeks. There’s no chance he’ll sneak past them without being caught, but maybe he can get away without explaining his state of mind.

“You’re out and about early.” Lotor spies him, peeking around the refrigerator door, creamer in hand. “Nice day?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty.”

Shiro stops at the island, laying his hands out on the grey marble and tapping the veins of white in it. Because that’s natural. He thinks. He often loiters in the kitchen with his best friend’s shirtless partner, staring resolutely at the countertop like a bashful kitten.

Lotor clears his throat. “Good walk?”

“Mhm.”

There’s another lull. Lotor flubs around with the coffee maker, dumps the grounds Shiro left, and fills it with fresh water. He gets it running, then lights the stove and spreads the ingredients for omelets on the counter; cheese, onions, tomato, all of Allura’s favorites.

Shiro’s still hovering when Lotor begins chopping.

“You okay?” he asks.

Shiro bites his lip. Does he tell Lotor? Does that… somehow make a day with Lance… serious? For a beat, he considers what Coran said, and finally lands on openness.

“I met someone,” he says, his voice soft. “Someone fun.”

* * *

 

Shiro spends a half hour wavering on what to wear.

In fact, he’s so indecisive, that Allura tears through his suitcase and the few drawers he’s put his clothes in, tossing things to him with a _‘This is nice’_ or _‘You should wear black. You’re hot in black.’_

Eventually, he settles on two items she picked — mid-thigh shorts that are a shade of charcoal grey and a white V-neck that fits snuggly over his chest. Allura didn’t necessarily pair them together, but she caves because, “The sleeves make your biceps look great and how can Lance say no to that?”

They’d laid in Allura’s bed and looked him up online the night before. Shiro thought it was borderline stalker-ish, but Allura insisted she see Shiro’s date. She clicked through his profile pictures, read his bio and posts, then ruffled Shiro’s hair when he buried his face in a pillow.

“He seems like he’s nice,” she said. “He’s super cute, too. You sure do like those boys with blue eyes, don’t you?”

“What can I say? I have a type.”

Lotor had kicked Shiro out around midnight, and Shiro spent another hour or two tossing his own bed, fighting butterflies every time those gorgeous blue eyes appeared in his head.

But, jogging to the pier, he doesn’t feel any anxiety. He feels…

Excited. Elated. Eager.

When Shiro spots Lance on the boardwalk, hair glistening in the mid-morning sun, it all bursts from him.

God.

He’s lovely.

He’s… Shiro’s brain stutters for better ways to describe him… He’s wearing these jogger-style khaki pants, rolled up around his calves, with black converse and an anklet to complete it. His top, which crops across his abdomen and reveals so much of that golden-brown skin, is turquoise and cut to show off his toned stomach, chest, and back.

Shiro loves it. He absolutely loves it; the simple, cool style, the lean muscles that stretch and flex when Lance waves to him. He’s undeniably attractive, and Shiro feels lucky to have even a day with him.

He laughs breathlessly, reaches Lance with an indescribable freedom in his chest and barely keeps himself from hugging him.

“Hey,” he exhales. “Good to see you.”

He didn’t notice the day before — what, with their unexpected meeting and Veronica interrupting them — Lance’s lips are all the prettier when he smiles, plump and kissable too. Shiro bites his own, rubbing up his arm to disguise his jittery hands.

“You too.” Lance’s eyes wander over him, to his arms and chest and legs. His cheeks are flushed when he looks up again. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Did you think I’d stand you up?” Shiro asks, half teasing. He doesn’t expect a serious answer.

“No, I thought you’d come… but I guess there’s always that whisper of doubt.”

Shiro’s gaze softens. “Well, I hope all your doubts are abated. I’m all yours.”

Remaining frozen for a stroke, both looking at the other with a mix of exhilaration and shyness, it’s Shiro who breaks the quiet tension. He holds out his left hand, palm upward in invitation, fingers trembling slightly with the knowledge this may be too bold, too much.

His heart stutters when Lance accepts.

“A lot of places are closed since it’s a Sunday morning, but we can start with one of my favorite spots while things open up,” Lance explains, nerves leaking into his words, and steadily fading. “You’ve had breakfast, right?”

“Yeah. A smoothie.”

Lance scoffs. “That’s not breakfast.”

“Does it make it better or worse if I tell you the smoothie was green?” Shiro flattens his prosthetic hand on his stomach, brows arched. “I have to watch my figure.”

“And you have a great figure, but at what cost?”

“I’m guessing… donuts?”

Shiro barks when Lance tugs him along, eyes rolled up the sky.

They slip into an easy stride side-by-side, fingers twined together, and take a right off the pier, wandering down in the sand. Shiro runs his thumb over Lance’s knuckles. Lance returns the gesture with a short squeeze, and pink soon spreads beneath his freckles, the flushed color becoming something Shiro admires.

As they near the lapping tide, Shiro stops to take off his shoes. He misses the contact of Lance’s skin, which so far he’s learned is warm and slightly calloused from lifting weights. When he straightens, the absence is quickly amended.

He allows himself the chance to marvel at it all. They are quiet, yet comfortable, stealing glances and trading shy smiles as they settle into the morning. The sun is still low enough that the granules of sand are cool, and the beach hasn’t reached the bright white that makes it impossible to see anything without going blind. Whether they spend the day walking, or Lance’s favorite spot is somewhere other than the edge of the ocean, Shiro finds himself looking forward to whatever the day (date?) has in store.

A date.

Is it? It certainly feels like that. And, he makes the choice to treat it as such, to put aside the skepticism that has him fearing there’s no attraction on Lance’s end, that Lance is simply being nice, and fully enjoy himself.

“Veronica seemed ecstatic about this yesterday,” Shiro remarks, a finger gesturing at each of them. “Is she always that way? Or is your family like mine in that they constantly set you up on dates?”

A chuckle is clear in Lance’s throat. “Both. She’s always energetic. Runs in our blood, I think. But I did spend my entire day dodging questions about the cute guy on the pier.”

“Cute, huh?”

“What… do you prefer a different term?”

“No, it’s…” Shiro cants his head, screening a blush by looking at the ocean before he admits, “I answered all of the questions about the hottie on the pier.”

Lance’s eyes widen.

“Allura, the friend I came down here with, wouldn't leave me alone about you ‘til her fiancé finally booted me out of their bed.”

“Is she always nosy?”

“A match made in heaven with your family.” He wiggles his fingers around Lance’s to show he’s playing, then falls back into a peaceful silence.

The waves are enough to fill it, to soothe away the last of his butterflies. Shiro closes his eyes and inhales, expanding his lungs with the salty air. Spray from the sea teases his hair, coats his skin with a refreshing mist.

When he opens his eyes again, Shiro refocuses on where they’re headed. Lance has adjusted their course slightly, leading them away from the beach to a string of booths on the boardwalk. There isn’t much activity given the hour, but a few teens mill around, carrying stuffed animals and shaking the trails of younger siblings and vacationing parents who look more weary than well-rested.

“Carnival games?” Shiro asks curiously.

“I grew up coming here.” Lance beams back at him, his pace quickening towards a simulated hunting game. “They don’t call me sharpshooter for nothing.”

“Who’s they?”

His challenge sparks fire in Lance’s blue eyes. Shiro flashes a shit-eating grin.

After tossing a few bills to the ticket master, he leads Lance back to the booth of choice. The employee running the thing takes two tickets each, then Shiro settles on a stool and pats the spot beside him.

“Get ready, sharpshooter.” He collects the plastic rifle and adjusts in his grip, left hand curled around the grip and trigger.

As soon as Lance is ready too, the booth whirs to life, the crank of gears drowning out the carnival music for several beats. Wooden cutouts of deer and geese pop up and down and skitter across the back of the booth. Lance fires rapidly and manages to score two.

Keeping in hot pursuit, Shiro matches. The cutouts fold, and his points tie with Lance.

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_

“Ah, come on!” Lance exclaims.

For the three shots fired, he only hits one mark. Shiro manages to pass him with his next rounds, nailing a bunny, then another buck.

One of Lance’s legs flails out, hitting Shiro in the calf. “You’re cheating. Cheating!”

“You wish! Military, baby.”

Simply to mess with him, Shiro shoves his knee into Lance’s, knocking him off kilter long enough to hit another target, and another. Lance recovers well, after a shout and a growl, but there’s no time left. The buzzer sounds, the quick minute passed, and Shiro jabs his thumb at the scoreboard, one up over Lance.

“You bumped me.”

“You kicked me.” Shiro raises a brow, a question in his smile. “Best two out of three?”

Lance hands over more tickets and readies his gun.

* * *

 

They carry on into the afternoon, boisterously loud and rambunctious in their excitement.

Lance is the undeniable winner after two more rounds of shooting, then another three just to drive it home. At every other booth, the ring toss and the rope climb, they trade victories and bets, touches and then, shoves. Shiro ignores the rumblings in his stomach for a final shot at Ring the Bell, stomping out a rowdy competitor with Lance cheering him on from the crowd.

He trades the game’s heavy mallet for a blue, stuffed lion, and Lance gleefully accepts the offering, fully forgiving Shiro for dominating in basketball.

They leave the carnival to find food, real food. The sugar high from funnel cakes has long worn off. Lance swears by the burgers and draft beers at The Salty Crab, so that’s where they end up, seated across from each other beneath a rainbow umbrella at a lime green picnic table on the sandy patio, shirts and hair rippling in the playful wind.

Lance’s lion sits beside him, pulling a smile to Shiro’s lips.

“I guess you’ll have a reminder of me,” he says, folding his arms on the table.

Lance takes a drag from his beer, licking away the foam. “And I’ll have to bring you back here, win you something next time. Or how else will you remember me?”

“You’re harder to forget than you think.”

“Sharpshooter, and all that?” Lance straightens, his face glowing.

Shiro leans on his hand, beaming back. “If you’re worried, we can go pester the shooting booth for a prize.”

“Your prize was getting to win that first round.”

Shiro feigns offense. “Are you saying you let me?”

“I’m not denying it.”

Lance wiggles in his seat, his joy, palpable.

Shiro welcomes the same feeling within himself, the attraction that curls in his belly, tight and warm; the giddiness that makes his heart race, hammering hard. It’s not lost on him how many years have gone by without something deeper than a weekend fling to take away the edge. As short-lived as this might be — tucked into the two weeks left until Christmas — Shiro thinks something… good will come of this.

Whether that’s a newfound zest for his life outside of work or an increased willingness to be open with those outside his family, he doesn’t know.

A part of him doesn’t want to think about the… the after. Right now is perfect. Right now is sunny and humid and ocean eyes that drink him up and make him want to drown in their depths.

Shit, what a good way to go, lost in this moment.

Shiro drops his hands to the bench beneath him and grips the wood like it will ground him. His private thoughts are interrupted by a waitress, who brings his Bloody Mary and takes their orders for the greasiest burgers known to man.

“To make up for your fake breakfast,” Lance jokes.

“Hey, if I had the metabolism of a college student— my sweet tooth is a monster.”

“Is that what I have to worry about come May? I get my diploma and twenty extra pounds?”

“You never know. If your degree’s in beer pong and pizza…”

“I started there, but,” Lance corrects him, smirking, “marine environmental engineering is where I ended up.”

Shiro’s eyes blow wide. “No way. And you’ll have your Bachelor’s in May? That’s really impressive.”

“Thanks. It took me awhile to figure out what I wanted to do. Having four older, brilliant siblings leads to feeling like I’ll never quite measure up. But I’ve always loved the ocean, and wildlife, and conservationism, so it felt like the best fit for me. I think I was right.” Lance glances away shyly, and in his expression, Shiro reads quiet pride. “If I’m accepted to a graduate program, I may end up on the Outer Banks.”

“Another area you can show me around.”

“You’ve never been?”

“No, I’ve been,” Shiro shrugs, lips twitching. “Knowing me, I’ve only been to the shitty bars.”

“For that Jimmy Buffett ambiance?”

“You know what?” Shiro gives him a threatening glare, though it soon dissolves with mirth. Lance’s shoulders shake, head tossed back; he looks so colorful and alive, like he belongs right here in this moment, on this beach.

To hide the affection bubbling up in his chest, Shiro kicks sand at him under the table and laughs along.

“I have my comfort zones, okay?” He defends himself, hands raised. “And I often branch out of them, but there’s nothing wrong with Margaritaville, fruity drinks, and the two-step. I’m a very good dancer, by the way.” Drumming his fingers on the table, Shiro slides one across, brushing the outside of Lance’s wrist. “It’s the simple things in life.”

Lance turns his hand over, fingertips cool and damp from holding his beer. Shiro swipes up droplets of condensation, tracing crease lines and calluses before taking Lance’s hand fully.

It’s the simple things, and it’s this: chances; chasing happiness.

“I want to do this, again,” Shiro says. “If you’re up for it.”

“Really?”

The corners of Lance’s mouth curl upwards, his smile small, yet genuine. Shiro battles down the overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss him, unsure if they’re there yet; unsure if Lance wants anything more than flirting and friendship.

“I’ve had fun. A lot of fun. For me, that’s a little unexpected.” He looks down, watching their hands. “I’m sure there’s more of the island to see.”

“Plenty… and we won’t run out of stuff, but today’s not done.”

Shiro grins. “Good. Neither am I.”

* * *

 

He never expected to the spend the entire day with Lance, but he does.

Stuffed full of fries and fry sauce, they pay little heed to childhood warnings and ditch their shoes and shirts on the shore. Lance rolls his pants as high as they will go, but both he and Shiro end up soaked when a wave tackles them, pulling them out with the surf.

They give up trying to fight it, floating in the tide for hours and chatting aimlessly about New York, frat boys, and their families.

Salt stings their eyes, stains their skin with streaks of white film when they finally trudge up the sand, drip-drying with their shoes in hand. They wander back to the pier. Lance fits perfectly under Shiro’s arm, up against his side. And he’s warm as they mingle among the still busy shops, the sun setting behind them. The sky is dyed orange and plum and pink. The air carries the scent of the sea, the freedom of the tide and calls of wildlife.

It’s a breathtaking scene and being with Lance has made it better than Shiro thought possible.

“Thank you for today,” he tells Lance as they stop in front of _Lilacs & Daydreams._

It’s a thoughtful name for a flower shop, Shiro thinks. Promising for the newlyweds who may come through; comforting for those who seek flowers for the heavier times life brings.

In a moment of melancholy, Shiro remembers his own time spent picking out the white roses for Adam’s funeral, and how the shop owner’s careful help was the only thing that stood between Shiro and breakdown. Lance’s family, from what Shiro has learned of them, seems the perfect type to help others in a similar position; it likens him even more to Lance.

Pulling his attention from the lit windows, from the display cases of hydrangeas and peonies, from the not-so-sneaky peeks of Veronica and Rachel, Shiro steps closer to Lance.

“Should we keep them guessing? About how today went?”

“They’ll pin me down until I answer,” Lance says, “but it’s better than them tackling you.” He looks towards the shop, then down at their hands, running his thumb over the hills and valleys of Shiro’s knuckles. “I know we agreed to do this again but… is tomorrow too soon?”

Shiro lets out an enthused gasp. “No— no. Tomorrow’s great. Text me whenever. I’ll come meet you.”

“Awesome,” Lance exhales shakily, catching his lip in his teeth to quiet the sound. “That’s fantastic, actually.”

It’s as if Shiro’s agreement is a relief to him, as if he’d been holding his breath waiting for confirmation that the admission over lunch wasn’t a fever dream.

Shiro’s chest tightens with a tug on his heartstrings; how can someone as thoughtful, as painfully beautiful as Lance ever worry he wouldn’t be wanted?

Unable to fight it a second more, Shiro pulls his hands free of Lance’s grips. His right grazes up Lance’s chin, cradling his jaw and neck delicately as his left thumb traces the edge of Lance’s bottom lip. He works it free of Lance’s teeth, meets Lance’s eyes with a silent bid for permission.

Lance licks his lips and it’s all Shiro needs. He bows his head, kisses him, and on his lips, Shiro tastes the sea. His throat may be hoarse and raw and burning for fresh water, but he sighs contentedly.

It’s a perfect kiss. Chaste. Sweet. _Promising._

Shiro pulls back, eyes flicking open and over Lance’s face. He remains quiet for a beat, simply reflecting on the day, on the hundreds of smiles, on the way his heart his stopped and restarted a thousand times already. Then, he steps away, nodding towards the shop.

“Say hi to your family for me.”

Lance splutters, and Shiro laughs as he pivots his heel. He tosses a wave at _Lilacs & Daydreams._

“See you tomorrow, Sharpshooter.” 

* * *

 

Day five of dating? flirting? kissing? and, Allura knows, knows he's in deep.

Keeping secrets has never been his specialty. Others’ secrets, absolutely. They’re safe with him. Shiro will bury them deep down and take them to his grave, but his own? They play out across his face.

Of course, she knows.

Shiro can’t even sneak to his bed without her guessing at everything he’s thinking.

“You like him,” she corners him in the bathroom after a shower one night. His towel is slung low around his hips, hair wet and speckling his chest with water droplets. Her eyes are on a flowering bruise, reddish and purple just beneath his collarbone. “A lot, I’d say?”

Shiro sets his razor on the countertop and brushes trimmed hair from the sides of his head. “I do. He’s hot.”

“Oh, it’s way more than his looks, Takashi. You’re all doe-eyed every time you come home. Don’t think you can get off that easily.”

“Never had a problem getting off, honestly.”

“Are you kidding me.”

Her look is one of disgust, and Shiro hopes it’s enough to escape any more pestering. All he wants is to climb into his bed, text Lance until the earliest hours of the morning, but he should know better than to think he can hide away from Allura’s insatiable curiosity.

He rolls his eyes, rinsing his hands in the sink before collecting his clothes from the damp rug, and caves.

“What do you want to know, princess?”

“Oh, Shirooo!” Allura bounces up on her toes, thrilled with her accomplishment. “I want to know everything.”

And just like that, he’s telling her everything, spilling every detail of the few dates they’ve had, humming dreamily as he tugs on flannel pajama pants and tosses his towel over the door to his room.

“He has the most adorable laugh,” Shiro reminisces, crashing down onto his pillow. He hugs it close to his chest, a wish for Lance flitting through his head. “His smile is gorgeous. His eyes are… they’re so blue, it’s… intoxicating.”

He glances at Allura, who folds her legs beneath her. Her eager nod disturbs the bed. “What else?”

“And he’s really smart, super witty,” Shiro laughs to himself. “I don’t think there’s been a single moment where things feel awkward. Literally, everything he says is funny.”

“Who are we talking about?” Lotor appears in the doorway, white hair fanning around his shoulders.

“We?” Shiro scoffs.

But Lotor is quickly invited in by Allura. “Who do you think, darling?”

“Ah. Right. Lance.”

Naturally, Lotor can’t help himself. He tucks himself up against Allura, chin on her shoulder and eyes on Shiro, a wicked smile marking his lips.

“And to think, I told you so,” he sing-songs. “Was I wrong?”

Shiro groans as a blush spreads down his chest. He buries himself further in the bed.

“Fine. Thank you,” he growls, as it was, in fact, Lotor who informed him going out and dating, even for a short time, couldn’t hurt anything. “Now get out, both of you, before I start talking about Lance’s tight, little ass.”

* * *

 

Surprisingly, Coran is the only one of the three not to harass Shiro. It’s odd for the usually talkative man, but perhaps it’s due to his own experiences. He doesn’t need to ask to know Shiro is smitten. The evidence is in written into every single one of Shiro’s cells.

He has his seventh date with Lance — damn, every day together has somehow passed too quickly and so slowly. They plan to go sailing. That tidbit is all the more detail for which Coran asks. He greets Shiro in the kitchen the next morning, a knowing smile making the ends of his mustache curl and provides Shiro with a hearty breakfast.

“You’ll want to fill up. Sailing can be taxing on the body.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of…” Shiro squints at him.

Coran shrugs, a picture of mischief.

Fighting a blush, Shiro scarfs his food, then snags a donut for Lance before skipping out the door.

* * *

 

On the other hand, there’s Lance.

And Lance’s family, who rival anyone Shiro has ever met in terms of nosiness.

The issue is, they’re covert about it, showing up at the worst times with little to no announcement.

With several days before Christmas, Shiro suggests a day of jet-skiing. A place near The Salty Crab rents them, and being a junkie for adrenaline, Shiro eggs Lance into a race to Dog Beach. It’s a way, but they’ll be safe from any of his siblings’ spy games, and the dogs frolicking in the water are fun, even if they have none of their own.

All it takes, however, is a snap on Lance’s story — the two of them beaming in the glistening water — and Shiro hears giggles behind them later that evening.

“What was that?” Lance perks up in Shiro’s arms, breaking a kiss to look out over the beach.

The lounge creaks with his movements; Shiro begrudgingly adjusts so Lance may untangle his legs from his own and their towel, and shifts around to scan the landscape behind them. Houses and dunes line the distance, white sand glowing eerily in the moonlight.

He’s sees nothing, no one. “Maybe it was just some kids?”

Reaching for Lance, Shiro’s ready to hunker back down. The last hour has been filled with the taste of Lance’s lips; why not another? Then, he spots movement. Another laugh. Lance curses under his breath and there’s a scramble of commotion.

_“Surprise!”_

“How did you find us?!”

Rachel waltz up to them, a bottle of tequila extended to Lance in a bid for forgiveness. “You should turn your location off, silly.”

“Or, you know,” Luis shrugs, dumping firewood in the sand, “don’t send us a snap from the one beach that allows dogs.”

“You didn’t...” Shiro admonishes. “Lance, how could you?”

Lance sighs, an apology on his face. “Forgive me for showing off my hot date.”

“And here we thought Rachel was the only one with a thing for older men.”

Rachel lunges across the sand, tackling Marco over a lounge chair and onto his back.

Even with their surprise guests, the bonfire turns into a camp-out, and the camp-out turns out to be a night Shiro won't soon forget. Veronica and Marco had the foresight to bring blankets and pillows. With the fire dying to a low crackle beneath the moon, Shiro sets up a cozy spot in the sand and tucks Lance in with him.

“Tell me something you believed when you were a kid,” Shiro melts into Lance, holding his hands where they rap on his sternum, “that you kind of consider a truth now, even though you know it’s not possible.”

“Easy. Santa.”

“Santa?” Shiro scoffs.

“Yeah.” Lance tickles the back of Shiro’s neck with a short exhale. “I grew up believing in him until Luis shattered my world, but the Christmas movies bring that feeling back.”

“Nostalgia.” Shifting in their nest of blankets, Shiro rolls to his back to look at Lance, who props up on his elbow. “I get that. The Lion King has the same effect on me.”

“You believe animals can talk?”

“Hah, no.” Shiro pinches Lance’s thigh under the blanket, earning a grunt. “The story of the stars, though; the belief that the dead kings become one and watch over the pride. I like that.”

Dropping to his back, Lance is quiet a moment, studying the stars.

“My grandfather is up there. He was a crab though, so I’m not sure how I feel about this.”

Shiro laughs. “I’ll have my dad to keep him in line. Deal?”

“Deal.” Lance’s fingers find his again, and Lance pulls Shiro’s hand onto his stomach. “Will you tell me about him? About your dad?”

Shiro answers with a gentle smile, and they fall asleep counting constellations, tugged away to happy dreams by Shiro’s memories and the lazy waves.

In the morning, back on the main island, Shiro is bold enough to leave Lance to his siblings with a kiss, but following that, they relish what they can keep hidden.

The coffee runs before work. The crashing late night bonfires on the beach. The laughs, the kisses, the heavy breathing stolen in the back of the flower shop.

The number of each is limited, so they chase and claim as many moments as they can.

All of their carefulness doesn’t prevent them from being caught making out in the back of the shop. Veronica squeals — literally, _squeals_ with delight — high enough for the shop’s occupants to be alerted, and soon enough, the news is spread around to everyone else.

It doesn't create any problems; that was never their worry. Lance told Shiro his family was accepting from the beginning, he’s just… tormented. Lovingly, of course.

Truthfully, Shiro can take his own portion of the teasing, and finds the rest amusing, watching his— he almost slips a few times and calls Lance his boyfriend before remembering that this is temporary, that he’ll be leaving soon. He watches his fling, his Christmas crush, _(cuffing,_ Lance calls it), shriek and stutter and do everything in his power to get back at Marco and Luis for the endless kissy faces they make any time Shiro comes into the shop.

It’s not any use. And it doesn’t aid Lance’s battle that Marco and Luis, Rachel and Veronica, all get to know Shiro, and all get along with him well.

They’re authentic, hysterical, and excellent listeners in the slow times between shifts or customers. They ask him many of the same things he’s told Lance during their outings, but their eyes light up all the same and Shiro has no issue repeating himself.

 _No,_ he never expected Astral Robotics to become what it is, though he should’ve. Allura Melenori is nothing short of a genius.

 _Yes,_ piloting is something he loved. He has talent for it, for the quick calculations, the spur of the moment decisions.

 _Sort of._ There are days he misses it, misses the adventure, the heroics. Other days, he’ll remember the things he lost, he’ll wake from a bad dream, or he’ll remind himself that he’s helping wounded veterans, but no one else is getting hurt on his watch.

And then, there’s a question posed late on the Sunday night before Christmas. The question.

He’d been invited over to the Mcclain’s for supper. Lance’s mother, Maria, sits with him on the back patio of her family home, patting his arm at every flicker of lightning bugs above the grass. Crickets chirp around them, filling an extended, yet gentle silence without Lance, who’s run off to the kitchen for more chips and mango salsa. Both sip from margarita glasses, salt dusted around the rim, and Shiro sucks his tongue of the liquor’s aftertaste.

“Why did you leave the military?”

It’s innocent, enough. He has the ability to dismiss it by pointing at his prosthetic arm, but since explaining over a fajita dinner that Astral Robotics’ entire goal is recommissioning soldiers thrown out of the fight, it no longer feels like an easy dismissal.

Instead, Shiro doesn’t answer; not immediately. He fidgets with his left ring finger and when he looks up, focusing on Maria, he finds her regarding him intently.

She has Lance’s eyes. When the blue breaks, Shiro’s heart shatters.

“You lost someone, didn’t you?”

“I—” He cants his head, seeking an out.

“It’s okay,” Maria consoles him. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Shiro nods, clenches his right fist.

“My arm was a big factor,” he deflects. “This may help now,” he uncurls his fingers and reaches for his glass, swishing the limey liquid around his mouth, “but the PTSD… they can’t exactly put a gun in in the hands of someone who’s triggered by balloons, now can they? Because what’ll happen when it’s really a grenade?”

He glares at his drink. His prosthetic could crush it, and pieces of him want to do it. It will distract from everything he just said, all he shouldn’t have shared.

Delicately, Maria covers his hand, taking the glass from him.

“I’m sorry, Shiro. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” he mutters. “You didn’t know.”

Lance picks that exact moment to return, oblivious and unaware. Shiro finds it impossible to pull his gaze up with the memories replaying in his head, but Maria saves him.

“What’d you bring me, sweet pea?”

“Mom!” He grumbles before settling in his chair, knees spread and bumping Shiro’s. “Mild salsa this time, more suitable to your sensitivities.”

His smile is infectious, enough to make Shiro return it. Shiro’s eyes must not match because the space between Lance’s brows vanishes. He looks between Shiro and his mother.

Quietly, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Mom?”

Maria’s chair scrapes. “I’ll give you two your space.”

The sliding door squeaks open and shut, leaving the patio to them alone. Lance leans forward in his chair, reaching for both of Shiro’s hands. Shiro retracts them, balls them up into fists tucked snug against his hips.

“What did she say?” Lance manages some humor still, faking a laugh. “Did she tell you I used to puke every Christmas Eve?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Wait, what?”

“Because, really, I’ve learned to stop working myself up s—”

“Lance, no.” The edge to his voice is clear, stopping Lance right in his rambling tracks.

Shiro’s never been tense around him, never even dared to show a sliver of apprehension or fear. Their relationship, new and fledgling, has stuck to the lighter side of life. This is new territory, and Shiro recognizes Lance’s concern.

“I’m okay,” he whispers. “I promise, I—”

Recovered? Makes him sound like an addict. Makes him sound like _a liar._

Scrubbing his face, Shiro drops both of his hands into his lap. Lance takes them this time, more determined than before, though softer. His fingers bleed tenderness; his eyes ache with care.

“You can tell me. Whatever it is. If it’s horrible, or I’m horrible… I mean, you- you never have to see me after this.”

“That is the complete opposite of what I want.”

“Then… what?”

Confusion mars Lance’s slender features, hunches him over, crinkles his nose, and sets his lips into a thin line. If he could have his way, if this conversation weren’t on the table, Shiro would kiss that distress away. It’s not right for someone so pretty to look so sad and scared.

“I haven’t felt this way in a long time, Lance. I haven’t felt so careless and free...”

Lance squeezes Shiro’s hands. “That’s good… that’s good, right?”

Shiro nods. “Yeah. It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

He moves his hands so one covers both of Lance’s, then reaches up and runs his knuckles up Lance’s cheek, tucking stray hair behind his ear. His fingertips linger on the curve of Lance’s jaw, trace his neck and collarbone as they fall. He feels his heart plummeting in time with their descent.

“But the reason… I didn’t leave the military because of my arm.” Shiro pauses, intertwining his and Lance’s hands once again. He finds it difficult to pick and choose the right words, even more so to discern if he’s sharing too much. At the edge of his conscious, he can hear his family encouraging it, nudging the openness along.

Talking about it normalizes it. Talking about it makes you realize you aren’t alone.

Shiro pulls in a deep breath. “My fiancé died five years ago.” His lungs release the captured breath. It leaves him in a rush, and Shiro ducks his head. “It happened right in front of me. It’s why I came down here, to be with people who know how to calm me down, to avoid the nightmares. It’s- I—”

He doesn’t expect to be pulled into Lance’s lap. Distantly, because he knows he’s heavy, but Lance manages to drag his full weight from the metal patio chair and wrap his arms tight around Shiro’s neck. And, more closely, because he’s accustomed to this being a barrier, a dealbreaker, a secret he keeps stashed away for a night or a weekend to find that company he occasionally craves.

“I’m sorry,” Lance whispers. His lips tickle Shiro’s hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Lance cups the back of Shiro’s head, and all the safety, all the warmth he’s felt since their first meeting, it runs up and over and brings tears to his lashes. Shiro tucks his face closer, eyes closed and pulse slowing, evening out in Lance’s calm presence.

He doesn’t have to be okay.

But, for once, Shiro feels like he might be. 

* * *

 

Allura’s beach home is quiet and dark when Shiro sneaks back inside. They’ve left the door unlocked for him, as they’ve learned to do since his romance with Lance took off, and a sliver of pale light comes from the lamp above the kitchen stove.

Just past two in the morning, and tiptoeing from the kitchen towards the living room, Shiro doesn’t expect another burst of light. He nearly dies at the sudden sight of Allura, Coran, and Lotor lined up on the cream linen sofa, arms all folded and looks of perturbation contrasting their Christmas pajamas.

“What?” he barks, clutching his racing heart. “What are you doing?!”

“Where have you been, Takashi?” Allura asks. “It’s two days ‘til Christmas and we’ve hardly seen you.”

“Why does it matter? I’m twenty-nine years old!”

She shrugs, nonchalant. “Maybe we miss you.”

“Maybe we don’t,” Coran gruffs. “Traitor.”

Allura smacks him across the chest. “Don’t say that! It’s not true!”

And the whole angry-parent front collapses with a snort from Lotor, a squawk of protest from Coran. The latter bickers with Allura before stepping out of the argument, hands raised and sharp blue eyes pinning Shiro against the wall of shiplap surrounding the useless hearth.

“Alright, you’ve caught us, young man. We're lonely without you.” Coran jabs a finger towards him, his face a mockery of seriousness. “But we’re very, very disappointed in you. Running out on us for all hours of the night. Where have you been?”

“As if he’s been anywhere but with Lance,” Lotor suggests.

Shiro bobs his head, trying for innocence. That goodbye outside is not something he wants cropping up on his face.

“And who is this Lance?”

“Really,” he deadpans.

“Coran!” Allura hisses through her teeth, plants her hands in the couch cushion and pushes up. Her pink robe flutters around the elf onesie she’s wearing. She pulls it closer to her body, approaching Shiro with a tilt of her head.

“We do miss you,” she says, laying her hands on Shiro’s biceps. “But if he makes you happy…”

“Extremely.”

“Promise me we’ll see you _on_ Christmas?”

Shiro smiles, pretending to consider it.

“Takashi, please. Invite them all here if you must.”

“You know I wouldn’t bail on all of you. I have you to thank for all of this, remember?” Shiro brings his hands to Allura’s waist, squeezing briefly, then pulls away from her. “But I'll take you up on that… his whole family?”

Coran murmurs in approval, and Allura nods. “We would love to meet them.”

“I’ll extend the invitation next time I’m in the shop, then.”

“So… tomorrow?” Lotor jests.

“Christmas Eve can be the busiest day,” Coran tells him.

“Mm, I’m sure that’s the reason.”

Making a face at the both of them, Shiro plops into an armchair across from the trio, the olive-green accent pillows piled in his lap. He pets the tweed and suede, following the lines his fingertips trace in the fabric, reflective on the day and the evening.

“I don’t… I don’t think I was supposed to fall this hard for him.”

“It can be easy to get swept up in fling. One minute you’re fine, the next you can’t go a second without seeing them.”

Having returned to the couch, Allura snuggles a little closer to Lotor.

Shiro shares a smile with her. After years, he’s once again able to understand what she means. “I never want to leave. I never stop thinking about him. I could spend every day around him and be dissatisfied. It’s not enough, and knowing that it’s coming to an end, I—”

Catching his lip, it hits him. His feelings, his emotions; Shiro swallows. Hard. But there’s no stopping the freight train that slams into him, leaving him a torn-apart mess on the tracks. Shiro tries to stifle a laugh. It bursts from him all the same, making him sound deranged.

“I can’t believe this. I’ve fallen in love with him.” His chest is tight. He’s breathless. “Is that all it takes? Is that even possible? In two weeks?”

“I knew by then,” Lotor says.

“You did not,” Allura argues. “You were so aloof all the time.”

“I couldn’t very well announce it, woman.”

“Oh, he knew. We all knew.”

Lotor tosses his thanks in Shiro’s direction. “See?”

“I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You would’ve thought me insane!”

“Is that what I am?” Shiro asks. “This whole thing with Lance?”

“No, no. You’re—”

“You’re in love,” Coran interrupts Allura, his smile once again knowing and kind. “And what is love if it can’t be explained?”

“Well, I’m sort of in a situation where it needs to be explained.”

Coran appears apologetic. “Of course, but—”

“I have to figure out where we go from here. Before I go from here.

“Shiro, maybe you’re overthinking this.”

“How, Lotor? If I want any future with Lance, it has to be laid out… long distance is hard enough as it is.”

“Are you worried Lance is opposed to that?” Allura asks softly, catching Shiro’s sharpening edges.

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”

“What do you talk about?”

“I don’t know.”

He tries to sherk her question, but Allura doesn’t let it go. Her eyes are alert and locked on him; she’ll wait all night if he stays quiet.

Shiro drops his head, plucking at threads in the pillowcase.

“Anything. Everything. The military, his university, New York, my dad, Adam…” he lists, trying to dissuade the unease pumping into his veins. Deep down, Shiro knows it’s the uncertainty, not Lance. Never Lance. He fears losing someone, fears the heartache that’ll come. “Just… not this.”

“Those are all important topics,” Coran comments. “And you still have time to mention the path of your relationship.”

“I guess. A few days.”

Huffing, Shiro lifts his gaze, looking at each friend in turn.

Allura and Coran, the two who know him better than anyone, save Keith (who was sheltered from much of Shiro’s adult life until Keith reached adulthood himself). And Lotor, who he’s become close enough to treat like a brother, to trust with Allura. Shiro remembers being skeptical of him in the beginning, over three years ago, and how Lotor had worked and worked for Shiro’s approval, going so far as to ask both he and Coran for Allura’s hand.

These are the people he entrusts with absolutely everything. These are the people around whom he lets his walls slip, lets his worries free. And they’re encouraging him; they’re pushing for this, for his happiness.

As desperate as he is to take this chance…

“What if I ask, and the answer is no?”

Lotor clears his throat. “If you never ask, the answer will only be no.” 

* * *

 

Shiro clicks on a third link, scrolling down the list of flights for something decent. Being so last minute, he knows he’s bound to be unlucky, but there has to be a better option than throwing Lance on a red-eye flight on New Year’s Eve.

What is he even doing? Surfing airlines, planning out future visits like Lance wants to be tied to someone? He’s twenty-one to Shiro’s twenty-nine. Some older guy might be fun for a while, but Lance will soon realize the truth. That Shiro’s nearly in his thirties, that he’s often too tired to go out at night, sometimes too broken on the inside to open the blinds in the morning.

Who wants to be committed to that? Who wants to be stuck in a relationship at a distance? When one half of the party is panic and PTSD riddled? When one half of the party is prone to nightmares and insomnia and episodes of terror if a car turns over wrong?

He’s been fine while he’s here, but if Lance sees the real him...

It’s stupid. It’s all stupid.

Popping off Kayak, Shiro clicks onto Facebook. He’s rarely ever online; the publicist manages the pages Lance and Veronica follow, stealing pictures of him at charities and other events. His personal Facebook is a ghost town.

Years old posts of his own scatter his wall. He has hundreds of notifications: Allura tagging him in videos and her frequent updates. Further down, his page is scattered with pictures of Adam.

He shouldn’t linger here. Shit, Shiro knows he shouldn’t linger.

Curiosity — morbidity — gets the better of him and he clicks through half a dozen, occasionally tracing the slope of Adam’s nose and… trying to match the smile on his own face to the one in his reflection. It’s not easy; hell, it’s impossible. No matter how he tilts his head and contorts his mouth in the mirror above the desk, his smile is hollow, his eyes are haunted.

Shiro slams the computer’s lid and climbs into bed.

He has a Snapchat notification from Lance, which he immediately checks:

 _‘...hello from the other siiiiiiiiiiiidddddde!!!’_ Lance belts over Adele, shakily spinning with the camera to capture Shiro, who dances across the flower shop floor with a broom in his hand.

Shiro halts, holding the camera’s eye, and treats the broom like a mic. _‘I must’ve called a thousand tiiiiiiiiimmmesssss!’_

 _‘To tell youuuu I’m sorrrrrry!’_ They come together in the camera’s frame, dramatic and over-the-top. _‘For everything that I’ve donnnnne!’_

From somewhere screen, a shout carries. The music cuts off, and Shiro remembers that as the moment Veronica interrupted them. He watches it play out on his phone, hears her giggling in the background at her brother’s antics.

Lance smiles… then he smiles.  
Shiro gawks at his phone as the video ends.

“Replay,” he mutters to no one, tapping wildly within the app. “Replay it.”

By pure chance, the snap reloads and starts over, with Lance singing off key, Shiro following along, and that smile at the end. That’s it. That’s what he wants. That’s what he sees in the pictures with Adam. That’s what he has when he’s with Lance.

That pure, unadulterated smile.

How did he get so lucky as to find that again?

Closing the app and shutting off his phone, Shiro stares dreamily at the dark.

* * *

 

While New York would be hovering in the single digits and fighting feet of snow, Christmas Eve at the beach is bright, the pier is breezy, and _Lilacs & Daydreams_ is all in a tizzy.

Frazzled customers flit in and out, snagging the last pre-made arrangements Shiro put out. Marco and Luis scramble to move shipments into the fridges, prepping the shop for two days of being shut down. Rachel checks water levels and plant food. Veronica is in charge of the other employees on duty, who seem as wide-eyed as the desperate husbands needing bouquets for their wives, and she also manages the delivery of various arrangements.

On top of it all, Maria is heard from the storefront, having collected the list of final orders that morning.

“We have ten poinsettia arrangements to deliver. The church needs the white lilies for their service tonight, and the candles have to go with them. Do not forget the candles! Lance? What are you doing?”

Maria’s call echoes through the shop, finding Shiro and Lance where they’ve stashed away for the past fifteen minutes, forsaking any duties in favor of each other’s lips. Groaning, Shiro comes up for air, tilting his head to listen for the rest of Maria’s request.

He nips Lance’s nose, sighing. “Sounds like she needs you to make some runs.”

“I didn’t hear her.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to the others.”

“Leaving wouldn’t be fair to you.” Lance runs his fingers up Shiro’s neck, scraping his nails through cropped, black hair ‘til he finds purchase in Shiro’s bangs.

Shiro shivers, and while the sharp tug is a convincing argument, as is the kiss Lance chases the pang with, he remains resolute.

“She’ll come find us,” he argues, moving his hands up to the small of Lance’s back. “I can’t be caught back here with you, again. She and Rachel will banish me.”

“On what grounds?”

“Distracting you from your responsibilities.”

Lance pouts, smooths his hair and then the front of Shiro’s button down. “Come with me, then. It won’t take long. I promise not to be distracted and you’ll still have time to help Allura prep the ham.”

“Ten deliveries, plus the church? I have to wrap presents, too.”

“I hope you didn’t get me anything.”

Shiro winks. “I did, and what a shame it’d be if it wasn’t in a glittery box or a Christmas bag?”

“Glitter is awful,” Lance pushes. “What’ll it take to make you come with me?”

Shiro shrugs, settling back on the wall. “I mean, I can tell you… You think you can keep a straight face if I do? In front of your mother, no less?”

Curious, Lance nods.

Shiro leans in again, kissing him long and deep and pulling his hips against his. He lets the kiss build, lets his lips wander along Lance’s jaw to the pulse racing in his neck. The taste of the sea lingers there from their morning swim, next to the leftover scent of cinnamon from baking snickerdoodles during lunch. Beneath it all, Shiro’s own smell hides away on his skin.

He recognizes it, hums happily at having something so tangible, and the sound mingles with the hushed laugh tickling Lance’s throat. His hands flatten on Lance’s back, keeping his body flush, then Shiro whispers against Lance’s ear.

When he lifts his head, the color on Lance’s cheeks is a sight to behold, so vibrant and obvious.

Grinning wickedly, Shiro nudges Lance from their hidden nook near the refrigerated room, then takes his hand and leads him to the front of the store.

“Where’re we headed, Mrs. Mcclain?”

* * *

 

Of the ten Christmases Shiro has spent with Allura, each one has been something of an ordeal. The woman is amazing in her detail, extravagant and lavish with her parties and planning. Each year has a theme; each year has a massive tree, caroling, and endless gifting. And, each year, she’ll be damned before she lets him or Keith or anyone on her closely-knit list escape the festivities.

This year, before heading to the South, they’d promised to keep things laid back; a late brunch, a movie, they’d open presents with wine and lounge about reminiscing.

That was _before_ Shiro invited Lance… and company.

As they come up from the moonlit beach, he knows instantly that anything low-key has been tossed into the wind.

The back patio is speckled in twinkling lights, all a soft white. They make the sand dunes glow. The boardwalk’s damp surface glistens. The gentle crooning of Christmas music trickles outside, barely audible above the backdrop of the ocean, and inside, as soon as Shiro opens the door, a symphony of noise greets them.

“You made it!” Marco jumps to his feet, meeting them just inside the door with a flute of champagne in hand.

For a man Shiro’s never seen out of board shorts, he cleans up nicely. His white, short-sleeve button down lays neatly over the waist of tailored jeans, and the ensemble pairs well with his Santa hat and a garland he’s tossed around his neck.

He embraces Shiro, then Lance. “Late as always with Lance, but we’ll take it.”

“Hey now,” Lance claps Marco on the back, winking as Luis approaches them. “Fashionably late.”

“And at least I got him here. If Lance had kept driving, we’d be lost on the mainland right now.”

Marco responds with a hug for Shiro, then Luis moves in for a handshake.

“Good to see you, good to see you… it’s only been a few hours, but always a pleasure.”

Shiro grins. “Don’t lie, you missed us.”

“Alright, you caught me. How could we not?” Luis takes up an offensive position, jabbing Shiro in the gut, but a petite woman with dark skin and fire-engine red lipstick to match her dress comes to his side. He quickly straightens up.

“Causing trouble, are we?” she teases, her arm around Luis’s waist. “And I wasn’t even invited in on the fun.”

Looking sheepish, he gestures to Shiro. “Marci, this is Lance’s boyfriend, Shiro. Shiro, Marci.”

“Nice to meet you.” Shiro gives her a gentle smile, cupping her hand in both of his. It’s the perfect picture of poise and calm, Lotor would be so proud; internally, he’s all but dying.

Boyfriend. A blush stains his cheeks, worsening when Lance touches his back. Boyfriend. His ears ring; for once, in a good way. Is that what he is to Lance? Is that what this is? Sighing carefully, Shiro rubs at the tension over his heart, giddy and nervous and desperate for a drink.

 _Boyfriend._ He can’t believe it.

Maybe this won’t be short-lived. Maybe his worries were for nothing; he might not leave Florida with an aching heart.

“I’m going to find Allura,” he murmurs against Lance’s hair, momentarily breaking the conversation between him and his brothers. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Eggnog, if you have it. With Captain Morgan’s.”

“Hangover central, but okay,” Shiro pokes fun, leaving Lance with a brief kiss.

As expected, Allura’s in the kitchen — not cooking, though absolutely dazzling in a silver, sequined mini dress as she dictates — and of course, she feigns ferocity with him.

“You’re late, Takashi.” Her blue eyes flash with fire, pink lips forming a firm line.

“Only by half an hour,” he protests, pecking her cheek. “I helped Lance close up the shop.”

“Half hour, an hour, does it really matter in the grand scheme of things?” She waves a diamond-laden hand at the spread of food on the massive island. Not a peek of marble is in sight; it’s covered by potatoes, by pies, by green bean casserole, bread, and salad. “I had to prep the ham myself, after you promised.”

“Oh, _you_ prepped the ham? You?"

She swats at him, then snaps for a glass of red wine. “Here. Drink. Be merry. We have dinner, games, dancing; it’s all planned. Oh, and I have all of the guest rooms prepped for everyone because _alcohol galore,_ and in the morning, there’ll be the perfect breakfast for the head—”

He interrupts her by capturing her hand. “Allura, you know it doesn’t have to be a massive production.”

“Yes, I know.”

“They’re already having a fantastic time. I just spoke with Marco and Luis.”

Allura gives him a skeptical frown. “What about Rachel and Veronica? Lance’s parents? All of the kids?” Panic flashes in her eyes. “Shit. All of the kids. I don’t have any kid-friendly entertain—”

“Their uncles and aunts are entertainment enough.” Shiro strokes the back of her hand before letting go. “Trust me. Lance’s family is easy. You can enjoy yourself, too.”

“I know. I am.”

“Would Lotor say the same thing?” He raises a brow, having noticed the man is nowhere to be found. “What did you do with him?”

She grimaces. “Lotor is in the living room on babysitting duty. He refused to wear a tie, Takashi.”

“Are you kidding me? No one is wearing a tie.” Shiro gestures to the simple sweater Allura herself picked out, complete with black jeans and boots to his liking. “Besides, you look amazing. You make up for him tenfold, tie or not. Not that the Mcclain’s, or Lance, or—”

He startles, whipping around to scan the kitchen’s occupants, suddenly over-the-top excited.

“Allura, Luis introduced me to Marci as Lance’s boyfriend.”

“What?” Her face alights, fingers wrapping around both of Shiro’s wrists. “Really?”

“I’m not making it up.”

“Takashi… That’s great! Right?” She studies him carefully then, remembering the circumstances that brought him here, recalling their conversation nights prior.

The title, although one that makes Shiro smile from ear to ear, holds the potential to change things. For him. For Lance. For the memory of Adam and Shiro’s mental state.

Allura knows this, and she checks in, something for which Shiro is unequivocally grateful.

“Are you good? Are you happy?”

Shiro lifts a shoulder. “I feel like I may need to clarify things with Lance, make sure he’s on the same page as his brother, but… he didn’t react to it. Not how he should’ve if it were a mistake. I think.” He purses his lips, pondering the scene. “Although, it might’ve been awkward to—”

“Nope. Stop it.” She quickly derails his train of thought. “You’re not doing this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re sowing doubt. I won’t stand for it.”

With set determination, brows arched high to add to her seriousness, Allura takes him around the waist and leaves her duties in the kitchen. There’s no fighting her on it, and it’s better that way. Shiro only pauses at the bar cart to make Lance’s drink, then he lets her lead him into the party’s mix.

They stop by Rachel and Veronica in the dining area, chatting with each in turn about the possibility of caroling later. Veronica comments on the lovely tableware, gold and red floral arrangements with silver napkin holders and fine, white china. Allura preens at the comment, obviously thrilled as she thanks both women. Shortly after, Shiro introduces her to Maria and Robert, where they linger for a bit, making it halfway through their drinks before Shiro is bouncing up and down to drag Allura away.

The living room takes his breath away.

Somehow, in the hours between breakfast and the party, Allura managed garland, managed lights and gifts, managed mistletoe, and most stunning of all: a live tree. It’s done up with colorful lights, bedecked in tinsel and ornaments.

Shiro gapes, looking between it and her. “How did you…?”

“I have my ways,” she tosses her hair over her shoulders. “I want tonight to be great for you.”

“It already is. It’s— wow.”

He spots Lance, this time in the light of the tree, and his voice falters. It isn’t that he didn’t notice before, it’s that now, he has the opportunity to soak it in, to memorize Lance’s every feature and apply _boyfriend_ to each and every part of him.

Those blue eyes, as clear as the sky, as deep as the sea, are just for him. That smile, so radiant, so heavenly, is just for him.

From amongst his rambunctious nieces, nephews, and cousins, through the many mingling members of his adult family, Lance singles Shiro out. His dark skin glows in the sparkling, string lights, complemented beautifully by an emerald sweater. His teeth flash before a laugh sounds with the holiday music playing from the television. He disentangles himself from a clingy child, passes the wriggling girl off to Lotor, and Shiro is utterly entranced.

Right up to the moment Lance crosses the room and stops in front of him.

“Miss me while you were away?” He lays his hands on Shiro’s belly, snapping him free of the spell.

“Yes, I, uh—” It’s only been ten minutes, and yes. God. He has it bad. Shiro shakes his head as though it’ll help him regain himself, and offers Lance his drink. Their fingers brush. Shiro revels in it.

 _“Um._ Lance, this is Allura,” Shiro says, stepping back to introduce her. “Allura, meet Lance. You’ve… both heard plenty about the other.”

Allura extends her hand. “All good things I hope.”

“Shiro’s very fond of you.”

On cue, Shiro flashes a sly, little smile, touching her arm as he steps to Lance’s side. As much as he adores Allura, there’s no place he’d rather be. He’s content to listen quietly, occasionally chiming in with a well-timed joke or additional remark about something Allura says regarding him.

Too soon, Lotor is saved from Lance’s niece by Marci. He slips into the conversation, shortly stealing Allura away.

Left alone, Shiro asks Lance, “Well… that’s Allura. In the flesh. What do you think?”

His cheeks puff as he exhales, shaky laughter on his tongue. “You could’ve told me she’s—”

“—other worldly?”

“Precisely,” Lance nods. “And Lotor is.” He clutches his forehead, drags his hand over his face. “They must think I’m the biggest idiot. How do you even survive them?”

“Don’t worry, babe.” Sweeping Lance into his side, Shiro buries his nose in those soft, copper locks. “The bi-panic will fade eventually. Trust me. Now come on, I imagine Allura’s on schedule to eat.”

* * *

Dinner flows without a hitch.

From his spot opposite her, Shiro knows Allura is thrilled. She watches the many guests around the table with a sparkle in her eye, and when she catches Shiro’s gaze, she buries a smile in her champagne. She’s proud of herself; she deserves to be.

The hired staff for the night serves a spread of ham, prime rib, and side dishes. They keep the drinks filled to the brim, which keeps conversation going, loud and joyous. There’s so much of it in Lance’s family, so many enthusiastic faces and belly-aching laughs, so much love pouring from them.

Warm, full, and tipsier than he’d like to admit, Shiro scrapes his chair back and wobbles to his feet.

“I’d like to make a toast, if I can.”

He quickly has the table’s attention. Parents shush the kids, waiting on him expectantly. Shiro nods to thank them.

“My decision to visit Florida was last minute. Prior to Allura’s invitation, I was resigned to a lonely Christmas in my apartment, which sounds… pretty pathetic now that I say it aloud.”

A laugh ripples through the Mcclain’s, all of them but Lance, who wears a look of tender concern. Shiro shakes his head. Today carries no struggle. It’s Christmas Eve, and while he will always miss Adam on days like this one, the love for his lost partner doesn’t fill him with melancholy or dread.

His smile, though small, conveys this.

“Even after arriving here, Allura and Lotor can attest to the battle it was dragging me out of the house. Coran did his time, too, consoling me over — in Lance’s incorrect opinion — crappy Mai Tai’s and poor music.” He raises his glass to Coran before going on. “But, then I met Lance, and what a wild, intense, wonderful ride that has been.”

Laying his hand on Lance’s shoulder, Shiro beams down at him.

“So, I’d like to toast Allura, for planting my ass on a plane and making room for me here. To thank Lotor for putting up with the many nights I’ve invited myself into his fiancée’s bed to pine over the hot swimmer I met at beach. I’d to thank Coran for being so kind, so understanding, and the Mcclain’s for being so welcoming to me. And, finally, Lance—”

His throat is tight. Shiro pauses, swallows, hopes the swell of emotion will pass, but it doesn’t. It hardly fades.

“—Lance, you are beautiful. Inside and out. Your spirit is so hopeful. Your friendship is so easy. Your heart has single handedly done wonders to heal me, and because of it, you pulled me out of a dark place and right into you. I don’t know how anyone could not love you, and I—”

He’s in love. It’s insanity.

And while the verbal confession will wait for more privacy, Shiro can’t disguise the vulnerability his gaze.

“—I’m so grateful I get the chance to know you.”

He’s breathing hard as he finishes. He sounds winded when he lifts his glass.

“To Lance.”

Around the table and over it, champagne flutes and wine goblets clink together. Veronica tries to wipe her eyes without being caught. Allura kisses Lotor on the cheek. A knowing glance passes between Robert and Maria. The clamor returns, _‘here-here’s_ and other murmurs of agreement.

Shiro watches it all, listens to every bit, though he’s removed from it. His world only orbits around Lance.

“Do I have to find mistletoe?” Rachel demands, her voice choked on emotion. “Or will you be kissing him soon?”

Color spreads from Shiro’s cheeks to his neck, from his neck to his chest, but not a single fiber in his body puts up any fight when Lance stands up, when Lance throws his arms around his neck, when Lance kisses him hard and soft, slow and quick.

He doesn’t worry about eyes on them. He doesn’t care for the hoots and hollers. His only, all-consuming thought is Lance and Lance’s lips and Lance’s shy laugh when he settles back on his heels, his forehead to Shiro’s.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “for everything.”

It’s barely audible throw the cheers of their families, but Shiro hears him. He hears him and hugs him tighter, wraps the words up and tucks them behind his ribs. His heart could burst from the swell of love.

“Thank you, Lance.” 

* * *

 

“Okay, one more. One more,” Lance says, his laugh infectious.

Shiro follows the sound through the house, having made his rounds with everyone post-White Elephant and refilled his wine and Lance’s eggnog. He samples the thick drink, grimacing as he rounds the corner and finds Lance next to the tree.

“I’m never listening to you about what to drink ever again.” He makes a face, gives the drink over to Lance, and kneels down beside him. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’d take you seriously, but we’ve already established you have terrible taste.”

“Hey, don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Ah. Rude.” Lance sticks his tongue out, before pulling a long draught.

Licking his upper lip of the white film the eggnog leaves behind, he sets the drink aside, out of the way of Elli, who’s jeering him into another round of Hungry Hippopotamus, the five-year-old girl’s prize from the gift exchange.

“Wanna play, too?” Elli shoves a hand full of plastic balls in his face. “You can be purple.”

“I can be purple? Really?”

She bobs her head, ponytail flouncing. Plopping behind her pink hippo, Elli eyes him patiently, then looks to Lance as Shiro moves into position, returning the gifted balls to the center of the game’s surface.

Her uncle winks. “Three… Two… One…”

 _“Go!”_ She shrieks.

Elli is off before either of them, beating Lance’s green hippo to a mouthful and stealing a number of points from Shiro.

“Not fair!” Shiro protests. “You’re too good!”

She laughs, pure excitement stamped in her smile. She’s winning easily, gleeful about it, and soon enough, every ball is gone from the center of the game.

“Thirty-two!” she claps. “Lancey, I got thirty-two!” The game is momentarily forgotten as she jumps up, stealing over the top of it into his lap.

He plants a sweet kiss on her head. “No way! Four times in a row! You’re a champ, kiddo.”

“Can we play again?”

“Ah, I wish, but it’s getting late. I promised your mom you’d be off to bed by ten.”

Elli frowns, slumping in Lance’s arms. “Champions shouldn’t have to sleep. Right, Shiro?”

“Actually,” he chuckles, “Champions get all the sleep. It’s good for you. It’ll help you focus, which means you’ll win again in the morning.”

She appears satisfied with that answer. In fact, Elli pops out of Lance’s lap and grabs his hands, insisting he get to his feet and take her to bed. Content to wait where he is, Shiro looks at her little face with surprise when her fingers wrap around two of his.

“You too, silly,” Elli insists. “You can help Lance make voices with the bedtime story.”

Fully in agreement with that, Shiro follows her and Lance up the stairs to the game room designated for the older kids. A few are already asleep, while others scroll through phones or watch movies. Shiro and Lance are both careful to keep the peace, spinning whispered tales of dragons and fairies once they have Elli in a nightgown and in her sleeping bag.

She dozes off quickly, then Shiro leads Lance out and to the left, down a darker hall where his bedroom is.

They don’t make it.

Fumbling in the near black, the kiss is heavy and heated. Shiro can feel where it’s headed, though he doesn’t dare push Lance past toeing the line.

“We can stop,” he pants, breaking away for a second.

Lance is equally breathless. “Why?”

“Because this might stop.”

Shiro cups Lance’s chin, settles his shoulders and hips against the wall, and coaxes Lance closer to him.

“I have to go back. What if this ends?” He steals another kiss before there’s an answer, chasing Lance’s tongue and moaning when nails scrape into his hair. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes into Lance’s mouth. “I don’t want to leave you with bad memories of me.”

“Then don’t, Takashi.” The way he says Shiro’s given name is heartrending. “I know you have to go home, and I have to finish school, but don’t say this will end. We don’t have to let it.”

Shiro licks his lips, buries his fingers in Lance’s copper locks.

“I want this. I want you,” Lance says, already seeking another kiss. “Now, and after. That’s not changing.”

He doesn’t need another second of convincing. Shiro takes Lance by the hand, leads him the final steps to his room, and locks them in. 

* * *

 

The night passes warm and sweet; intimate and rushed.

Before he knows it, the sun is peeking through the bedroom window and Lance is complaining tiredly about being hungry. Shiro sneaks downstairs for a snack and offers him water, which he drinks greedily before laying down on Shiro’s chest.

Shiro’s fingers shake as he brushes sweaty hair from Lance’s freckled cheeks.

“I’m not letting go. I promise,” he murmurs, hardly audible over his own heartbeat. “Lance, I love you.”

“—'ove you, too, Takashi.”

Shiro hums, and Lance is quickly lost to sleep. 

* * *

 

 

The pitter-patter of rain on the window wakes them in the morning, and what a perfect morning it is.

Stealing the moments where he can, Shiro tangles the blankets further around their legs, nestling closer to Lance in the warmth of his bed. His lips graze Lance’s shoulder, up his neck; he traces shapes into Lance’s hip, waist, and ribs. At the feel of goosebumps on Lance’s skin, Shiro lifts his head, peeking over to find Lance’s eyes open and smiling at the wall across the room.

“Are you using me?” he asks.

“Using you?” Lance plays innocent. “Whatever do you mean?”

Shiro buries his face in the crook of Lance’s neck, nuzzling him until Lance giggles. “Oh, I think you know,” he purrs. “The back rubs, the tickling, the—”

A knock at the door sends them both scrambling for more coverage.

“Really?” Shiro growls, his irritation abating only when Maria pokes her head in.

“Sorry to wake you, Shiro. The kids—” She raises a curious brow upon spotting Lance, but says nothing of it. He’s blushing enough for the two of them. “—the kids are all up and Allura’s not sure how much longer we can keep them waiting. Santa has, apparently, made an appearance.”

“Coran?”

Maria nods. “See you down there?”

Taking a second to grumble sleepily, Shiro nods.

“Give us a few minutes.”

* * *

 

What they manage to accomplish in those few minutes shows on their rosy cheeks when they make it downstairs. Fortunately, it matches the cheeriness of the day, and though Lotor pulls a face, neither he nor Allura tease them over anything.

Keeping with the Christmas spirit, Shiro dressed himself in blue flannel speckled with snowflakes, while Lance looks wonderfully cozy in a Grinch onesie. The little ones love it. They clamber into his lap, laughing, and by default, pin Shiro to the couch with their combined weight.

He’s thankfully rescued by Coran in a Santa suit. He sweeps a child up and the rest follow, chasing his bag of wrapped goodies and tearing through their stockings. Sweets. Barbie’s. Legos. The young ones are unabashedly thrilled with their loot, screaming thanks to Coran before running off to play.

In their absence, the adults exchange gifts too, mainly between families. From his own, Shiro is given a few shirts, a watch he’s been eyeing, and a new collar for Black. He gives Allura a pair of earrings; Coran, a personalized grooming kit; and Lotor, a set of hand-stitched pocket squares he picked out while visiting London.

The Mcclain’s open theirs next, showing each other gratitude with hugs and kisses around. Luis and Marco show off darned scarves from Rachel, while Veronica dances over a set of tickets to a Ted Talk in town. Lance is given cash mostly, with heartfelt notes from his parents about finishing strong in his last semester. From his siblings, Lance receives a framed picture of himself and Shiro, the background being the bonfire on the beach.

And before he’s ready, it’s their turn. They’re the last to go.

Fortunately, the room clears at the prompting of Allura. Shiro finds the solitude is just what he needs. He clears his throat, gathers his thoughts from where they’ve scattered throughout the morning, and presents Lance with an envelope.

“No glitter,” he says.

Lance fingers the paper, remembering fondly. “It’s atrocious, I’m telling you.”

“No need to convince me. I believe you.” Shiro taps Lance’s leg, hides his nerves by digging his fingers into the muscle there. “Go on. Open it.”

“Okay.”

With a jerk of his head, Lance focuses on the seam. It’s agony to watch him be so careful, patiently tearing and opening and pulling two printed sheets from their hiding place. He reads over the first one, no reaction evident on his face. Tucking that sheet behind the other, Lance starts down the second, reaching the bottom before his lips purse and he looks up.

“What— what is this, Shiro?”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Vouchers.”

“Flights?”

“Yes.”

Instantly, Shiro second guesses the whole thing. While he felt confident when he woke this morning, he realizes the entire night prior could’ve been within the moment. The things said might be meaningless outside of bed. In his panic, the words tumble from him, streaming together without a breath between them.

“I— they’ll take you anywhere. Should be good for two, three if you stay domestic. I was hoping, maybe, you’d come up to Manhattan for New Year’s, and Spring Break too, but I know I’m asking a lot of you. I know I’m a lot to—”

He’s cut off by a kiss. Nothing extravagant, just a simple kiss that sets Shiro upright.

Lance palms Shiro’s cheeks when he pulls away. “Laguardia is good?”

“Lagu—?” Shiro splutters through shock. “Y-yeah, or- or JFK. I can get you from either one.”

“And, New Year’s sounds nice… but, what if I went up tomorrow? With you?”

“You want to?”

He nods, folding the vouches to his chest. “Of course I do. I meant what I said last night, Shiro. I don’t want to go a day without you.”

“You have to finish school. You have to chase your dreams.”

“I know, Shiro. I will.” Lance shakes his head, laughing. “The days I can be with you, I will be. I don’t like goodbyes, I’m terrible at them, but there are a million other reasons I never want to part with you. I love you, Takashi. I—” He pauses as though he’s remembered something, then sets the vouchers aside and reaches for a brown-paper package behind him.

“Open this. It’ll explain me better.”

Lance extends it, watching with pent-up anticipation as Shiro unties the strings and tears at the tape.

Shiro does so with the same torturous patience as Lance, only gasping when the paper is pulled away and a simple, silver frame is revealed. The metal itself is polished to a shine. The glass is sparkling and spotless. Behind it, set precisely in the middle, is a single lilac. It's been dried and pressed, preserved perfectly. Beneath it is the date they met on the pier, written carefully in calligraphy.

“The lilac symbolizes a first love,” Lance tells him, somehow sounding so small as he does.

Looking up from his present, Shiro realizes his- _his boyfriend_ is as hesitant for these confessions as him. His heart folds, collapses inward, taking pieces of Lance deeper within him.

“Lance…”

“You’re the first one for me, the first real love…” His breath shakes through his nose. Lance drops his gaze, follows the trembling path his fingers make from Shiro’s wrists so his forearms. He squeezes, and Shiro leans into him, foreheads touching.

“Tell me,” Shiro whispers. “I want to know.”

“You make me feel seen. You make me feel like I’m enough.”

Closing his eyes, Shiro kisses him, takes his time to savor all that he can: the taste, the heat, the unyielding joy in his belly. How did Christmas come to this? How did he win such a lot in life as to have this? Exhaling, Shiro opens his eyes, studying Lance up close with tears on his lashes.

“You are, Lance. You’re always enough, and you're absolutely everything I need.”

* * *

 

**June 10th, 2019**  
**University of Florida  
Tampa**

"Do you think he knows?" Rachel asks, gleefully bouncing on her seat. She rubs her fingertip over the black gold one last time, snaps the velvet box shut, and offers it to Shiro. 

He tucks it away in his coat pocket, nervously glancing at the students below. He picks at the row where Lance is, counts seven graduates in spies the one cap with loads of glitter showering from it. 

"That it's happening today?" He shakes his head. "That I'm going to marry him?" Smiling, Shiro pats the ring where it rests against his hip. "Without a doubt."


End file.
